Month: April 2009

Someone recently got to the ole blogge by Googling “and you look like you would be sticky if.” Please complete the sentence in the comments and you will win absolutely nothing at all. (My love is free.)

Because I can’t sleep, due to the fact that my feet and legs feel like they’ve been beaten with something metal and cruel, like perhaps an egg beater – with spikes.

My legs feel this way because, due to the fact that I am a jackass, I locked myself out of my new apartment and was forced to run 22 blocks (round trip) in my socks to my old apartment to get keys and to tell Adam that, in fact, Time Warner will never install cable for me, because they are hateful and probably also misogynistic. I’m not totally sure about that last one, but I will say that they took Adam much more seriously than they took me, and I’m sick of it. Also, my feet now have AIDs from nearly touching the pavement. There will be a fundraising dinner for them at some point soon.

So I write this to you over stolen internet, and anyone who doesn’t like it can bite me. I can’t wait to go to court, look the judge in the eye and say, “Tell me, your honor. Have you ever tried to get internet hooked up in Brooklyn?”

I have moved, by the way. Virtual housewarming hurrah and all that. Fudge.

I have teh vertigo, which I’ll tell you more about later (really, I will, I will, I swear I will) but all you need to know right now is that it is the silliest ailment a person can get and still be incredibly annoying. To top this, I will have to grow horns or perhaps a giant blinking nose a la Rudolph.

The other thing you need to know is that Duane Reade is my own personal hell, and if I wake up there one morning I’ll know that I died in my sleep and led an impure life. Seriously, they must have classes on being stupid and pissy. I long for that corporate training video.

Instructor: Now, when someone asks you for help, it’s generally best to pretend not to hear them. Especially if you’re a pharmacy tech and they’re screaming their request while sliding down the Alavert case.

I don’t let them get to me, no no. I buy everything in sight anyway, just as if I were being treated decently. Today, I worked my way through three separate aisles on my way to being mistreated in pharmacy, eventually rolling up to the counter with:

As of this moment, I technically have two apartments, the one I’ve been living in for the past three years, and the one I’ll shortly be living in some ten blocks away. A few facts:

Sgt. Lucky has agreed to be my roommate, as long as I promise not to make him get a dog smaller than my handbag. Promises, of course, were made to be broken.

As a result of all this apartment swapping, I now have three sets of keys – one to my old place, one to Sgt. Lucky’s place, and one to our new place. I could use my keyring as a weapon at this point.

The new place is rent stabilized, which means that everyone can bite my ass. Yes, yes, they can line right up and bite it, because I win, I win, mwahahaha!

Conducting real estate transactions in New York has made me not so much of a very nice person sometimes.

But I don’t care about that, because? Rent stabilized! Suck it!

Sarge and I went over last night and spent an hour figuring out keys and pacing out furniture placement. We brought wine and two glasses, and those are officially the first things in the apartment. That’s both drunk and festive, don’t you agree?

The best part of all this was the phone call I got this morning from our broker, who informed me that ha ha, the other agent who represents our landlord didn’t get the word that we had taken the place off the market, so maybe there might be a small open house at our place on Saturday. And maybe also on Sunday, too. And he didn’t have the dude’s number.

“But don’t worry,” he said. “I mean, it’s yours. You have a lease.”

“That’s hilarious,” I said. “Can you imagine if everyone showed up and I was there, putting up curtains? And my mouth is like, full of pins, and I’m all, hi! Mwawawafumph. This is my place! Who the hell are you?”

“Yeah, hilarious.”

“Oh, come on, Nelson, it’d be funny.”

“Mrrmph.”

“So what time should I not be at the apartment for the pretend open house?”

“Uh. Two to three.”

Which means, BTW, that if you’re looking at an apartment in Park Slope this weekend, there is very good chance that I already have a lease to it.

Here’s something you might not know about me: I hate the phone. I hate it because you can’t tell anything about the facial expression of the person you’re talking to, and because it seems to ring only when I have better things to do. I also have trouble working call waiting/multi-line conversations, because I am turning into my mother, and not slowly.

This makes it relatively hard and unpleasant for me to run meetings involving dial-in information. Unfortunately, nowadays all meetings involve dial-in information. This means that I now have issues with meetings as well as the phone.

I ran into an old coworker this morning on the train. He’d apparently been standing next to me for three stops before I noticed.

“I was respecting your morning privacy,” he said, when I asked him how long he’d been standing there.

This would have been totally fine, fantastic in fact, especially the part about him actually understanding subway etiquette. But I was, of course, sweating balls, so I was horribly embarrassed.

Many people think of themselves as sweaty, but I totally win in any sweaty person contast. When my former coworker said hello, I was trying to wrestle my way out of my jacket while preventing my makeup from dripping onto my dress. A pale beige droplet of sweaty makeup runoff had just plopped onto an innocent bystander’s knee. She was horrified, and who could blame her.

I never run into people when I’m appropriately attired. It appears to be a law. Perhaps I will start riding the rails in my underpants. At least then no one will notice my perspiring problem.